The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.

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59. Ink

Red ink spilled down my bed, staining the white polished wood, reaching the grey carpet.

Red ink wrote beautiful poems in the notebook beside my bed, getting stained by the red waterfall from above.

Red ink covered my hands, stained my sheets, and tainted my mind.

Red ink poisoned me – it consumed me.

Red was the ink, but black was my heart.

There was something about all of that red ink, because every night, I drowned in it.

The whole world saw my pain as the words on paper written in red ink.

But really, my pain was the blood flowing from my cuts.

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